


if pain were a person

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bullying, M/M, Sadstuck, Self-Harm, Triggers, dueds be CarEFUL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If someone were to ask you what pain was, you wouldn't have a good answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if pain were a person

**Author's Note:**

> HEY!!!!!!!! THIS!!!!!!!! COULD!!!!!!!! BE!!!!!!! TRIGGERING!!!!!!!!!
> 
> PLEASE BE CAREFUL

You know many forms of pain. So, you might furrow your brows and ask what they meant by that. They would probably be very confused; how many forms of pain are there? But you know. You know very much about pain, very much indeed. It’s something you are extremely familiar with. So familiar, in fact, that if Pain were a person, he would most likely smile fondly at you and invite you in for coffee, maybe lunch and a place to watch the Sunday game. He would ask why were you there this time? But he would know your answer.

He would always know your answer.

“My brother,” you would certainly say.

It would always be your answer.

At least, that’s what you thought. You might say ‘long, long ago’ and stroke at your beard. However, it was not ‘long, long ago’ and you do not have a beard—and have no intention on growing one, thanks (because really, who grows at beard at sixteen-almost-seventeen?). In fact, it was only a few months ago. Just about six, maybe? Definitely not long, long at all. Seven months ago, you would rest your elbows on your desk and read whatever the online lessons your brother made you take told you to read and supply answers in the line of underscores that marked where you were supposed to fill-in-the-blanks. The work was all extraordinarily easy, and you finished within hours, and when you would emerge from your room for food or maybe some juice, your brother would cast you a frustrated look (that could only be identified by the tight line of his lips and the clench of his jaw) before he turned away again. One day, when you finished unusually early, he just rose up from the couch and stormed out the door.

That was the day you were told you were going to attend public schooling.

He told you that the new semester would begin the next week, and you would start on Monday.

You did not speak to him until that morning.

Which he didn’t seem to mind, because he didn’t attempt to speak to you—not even when you collapsed on the other end of the couch, half-glaring at the television, praying he wouldn’t fuck with you and throw Cal on your head (Jesus, you hated when he did that).

That Monday morning, he pounded on your door in a way he never had before, with the side of his fist, plus force—much different from the careless bump of loosely held knuckles, signifying Chinese or pizza arrival. You groaned, literally rolling off your bed and dragging yourself to your closet to throw on some cleanish-smelling jeans and a not-too-wrinkled shirt. It was at this point when you finally got to your feet and shuffled to the door, opening it the exact moment your brother came to knock again.

That Monday morning, you started your first day of public school with a black eye.

That Monday morning, you were forced to remove your shades, because a handsome young man like you shouldn’t hide behind fashion accessories, honestly, school is a place for learning, not for style! _Kids these days, all about looks…_

That Monday morning, your black eye began the whispered rumor that you were punched by some scrawny guy named Tav (who couldn’t walk across a room without stumbling once) and were the latest, ripest target, the new white punching bag that needed to be broken in and dulled to a dirty yellow-brown.

That Monday morning, you were shoved against six lockers. Your shoulder dented three. Your forehead opened against one. Your head was given a bump by two, both contributing to the same.

That Monday morning, you asked to be excused in the middle of your third class and locked yourself in the dirtiest bathroom stall, then proceeded to cry for the first time since you were four.

Six months ago, on a different Monday morning altogether, one that could also by considered _really fucking late_ on Sunday night, you picked up your old Swiss Army Knife and slammed it down into the chair on which you sat, but mistakenly did so much too close to your leg and left a gaping slash on the side of your thigh.

Six months ago, on that same different Monday morning altogether, you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding and did it again.

Four months ago, on a different Monday morning/ _really-fucking-late_ -on-a-Sunday, you sat in a different chair, with a different Sharp Thing (a carpet-cutting switchblade you picked up from Home Depot five-months-two-weeks ago) clutched between your fingers as you released short huffs of breath, scarlet beads dripping down to adorn your fingertips and leave fast-drying streaks on your palm.

One week ago, on a Tuesday morning/ _really-fucking-late_ -on-a-Monday, you laid in bed with your window open, blowing in air the same eighty-two degrees that hovered in your room in the first place, wearing just your boxers over black sheets that hid dark stains, wishing you would be able to leave your room the next morning in gym shorts and a tank top like you would have been able to twelve months ago on the same Tuesday.

One week ago, on a Tuesday morning, you struggled on the loosest dark jeans you owned and gently pulled a sweatshirt over your head, knowing full well that the weatherman muted on the television was saying that you’d better crank up your AC because today was gonna be a hot one!

One week ago, on a Tuesday evening, your brother shoved your arm and you stifled a hiss upon which Pain would have strolled.

Five minutes ago, this Saturday night, you sat at your computer and watched some shitty old clip from a shitty old movie John linked you to, finger tracing that very first faded scar, up and down, up and down, in old too-large boxers and a stained some-Texas-sports-team tee-shirt, telling yourself that as soon as this clip was over you would climb into bed and sleep, even though it’s a Saturday night and you can stay up as late as you want to.

Right now, this Saturday night, there is a knock at your bedroom door.

You leap to your feet and jam your feet into baggy black sweatpants, breath sliding between your teeth in a quiet sibilation as the most recent inflictions break open against the worn fleece, and have just finished adjusting the hem of an old red sweatshirt when the knob twists and your brother enters.

You f _eel blood dampen the fleece that you try not to let rub on your skin._

Bro leans into the room, peering around until his eyes land on you in the corner. He steps in fully, kicking the door shut behind him even though there is no one in the apartment besides the two of you.

He is at your side in an instant, his fingers grip your forearm like a vise; Pain grins at you as the devil would before one sins and says, “Hello, Dave Strider, do you mind if I stay for a while?” and who are you to refuse?

“What’s wrong, Dave?” Bro asks; his head cocks to the side and his wrist mirrors the movement without loosening on your arm. You suck in a breath as skin splits once over. You attempt to snatch your arm back but he holds it firmly in place and the result is only Pain’s amused chuckle.

“Nothing,” you say, though your tone is too tense to be anything that isn’t related to the one that dances along beneath your brother’s fingers.

Behind dark plastic, eyes narrow. “We lie to each other a lot,” the senior Strider notes, “And that’s fine. But this time, I am going to ask you only once more: what’s wrong, Dave?”

“Nothing,” you lie, because that’s fine.

Lips a line. Jaw clenched. Bro mutters, “I gave you a chance,” and suddenly you see him toss one of your spare packs of blades on the desk and he has the hem of your sweatshirt in his hands and is pulling it over your head before you can shout a curse.

You had done such a good job of hiding them.

Six months, from that Monday morning, after that different-Monday-morning/ _really-fucking-late_ -on-a-Sunday, you had gone without hurry to your motion to prevent maroon stains on your clothes, had forced yourself to endure the heat of Texas spring/summer to keep the scabbing-scabbed-scarred skin for your eyes only, had opened your door wide and called out, “Yo, Pain, you free tonight?”

Now, you fold your arms over your middle and cover as much of your arms with your hands as you can, staring at the old Coke can on the floor next to your brother’s foot as his eyes scan the damage you’ve inflicted upon yourself almost nightly for weeks.

“That’s a lot,” he says. His voice is a breath. Then, he repeats, “Holy shit, Dave, that’s a whole fucking lot.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap. You turn the chair with your foot so the armrest is between you and your brother. “Get out of my room.”

You expect him to stay. He does.

You expect him to remain silent. He does.

You expect him to graze the red, the pink, the pale of your wounds with his eyes. He does.

You do not expect him to pick you right the fuck off your chair and envelop you in his arms, or to clutch you tightly to his chest. He does both.

Bro’s lips are close to your ear; his head is bowed and he is still taller than you. “What did I do?” he asks. You cannot recall a time where his voice has ever cracked. It does now. “Tell me.”

“You didn’t do anything.” Your voice is muffled against the white fabric of his shirt. Parts of it are smudging red. “Seriously. You didn’t do anything.”

“Maybe that’s the problem!” he shouts. The sound is loud in your ear and your head jerks to the side. “What _didn’t_ I do?”

You don’t want to tell him. Your throat closes and your chest feels tight and your stomach twists into knots, and you hear yourself saying quietly, “You _didn’t_ realize my black eye lasted three weeks too long on the wrong side.”

The cheek that the side of his jaw is pressed against feels it clench again, and the rest of you feels his grip grow firmer. “Who? Damn it. I swear to fucking God, I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them.”

“You won’t do anything!” you say abruptly, wrenching out of his grasp. “You never do! You didn’t do anything for _six fucking months_ while I spent seven hours of my day getting told I’m stupid and an outsider and a pussy and weak and taking shoves and punches without a word like I was fucking taught to! You didn’t do anything for _six fucking months_ while my mental health withered away by the second and I lost every ounce of control I ever had in my life! You didn’t do anything about the bloody stains on my _white_ carpet from the night _four months ago_ when I was crying too hard to see straight and grab a towel in time! It’s been _six! Fucking! Months!_ And you’re asking if I’m okay _now_!” By the second sentence tears have been stinging at your eyes and when you move to swipe them away angrily with the back of your hand, they break past your lashes and trickle to your chin.

Bro is still for a few moments before you blink and he is inches from your chest, his hand cupping your face and thumb brushing away the wetness on your cheek. The gesture is so gentle, so unanticipated, that you are nonplussed for just a moment too long and cannot move.

It is at this particular moment in time that you realize that not only did he invade your personal space, but he also removed both pairs of shades—yours and his own. So now you are staring into molten fire for irises and the intensity of his gaze has your breath catching in your throat.

“You think I don’t care.” It is a statement, not a question, but your eyes agree all the same. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d call you insane,” he hisses. “I thought you were smarter than that, Dave.” Then he is breathing your air and you feel the heat of his fingers as he holds your chin, tilting it so you are directly face-to-face.

You swallow. You do not move otherwise.

Right now, this Saturday night, which could be  _really fucking late_ or could also be considered Sunday morning, your brother kisses you. He pauses here and there, sentence broken apart between each one: “Because I care,” your lips connect, “a lot more,” again, his lips open, “than I probably,” again, his tongue darts across your bottom lip, “fucking,” again, it slips between your lips and slides over your front teeth, “should.”

You shove against his chest with no force. “Bro, this is wrong,” you say. Your mouths touch when you speak.

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“That doesn’t count. You don’t mean it.”

He’s right.

It’s _really fucking late_ on Saturday night, which could also be considered Sunday morning, and you run your tongue across your lips and kiss your brother again to do the same to his.

Pain waves you goodbye and closes the door. Your brother locks it behind him.


End file.
